matic reply to her devotion. Perhaps, as Mr. Harned implies, his heart was engaged elsewhere. At any rate, his conduct in this delicate affair seems sufficient proof of what has sometimes been doubted, that he was at heart a gentleman—a banal word, but we have no other.
The present occupant of the house is Mrs. Alexander Wellner, who was kind enough to grant me a few minutes' talk. She has lived in the house only a year, and did not know of its Whitman association. The street can hardly have changed much—save for the new public school building—since Centennial days. The gardens behind the houses are a mass of green shrubbery, and in a neighboring yard stands an immense tree in full leaf. Perhaps Walt and his good friends may have sat out there for tea on warm afternoons forty-two years ago. But it seems a long way from Camden!
As I came away, thinking of that romantic and sad episode in the lives of two who were greatly worthy of each other, the corner of my eye was caught by a large poster. In a random flash of vision I misread it in accordance with my thoughts. THE GOOD GRAY POET, it seemed to say. For an instant I accepted this as natural. Then, returning to my senses, I retraced my steps to look at it again. THAT GOOD GULF GASOLINE!
